Love and Lost Memories
by MooseXVI
Summary: Out of the mists of obscurity the enigmatic Lucan emerges, discovered by Prince Chrom as the pendulum of history is about to swing. But even with his mysterious gifts, how can he plan a war fought against Destiny itself, and come to terms with the affection of an exotic dark mage, when he is still struggling to find himself?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This is the start of my story about Lucan (My Unit) and Tharja. I absolutely adore this pairing, and I could never have it any other way. When I first finished ****_Awakening_****, I couldn't bear to part with them (I still can't, as it happens), so I decided to try and immortalise them with this fiction. How far I'll actually get with telling their tale I do not know, but I will try to see it through. **

**To any Tharja fans: I'm sorry that she doesn't appear from the start – for this story, I felt it was important to cover the experiences of Lucan/the Avatar before the two meet.**

**In any case, I hope my meagre scratchings can bring you at least a little enjoyment.**

**Naturally, I do not own Fire Emblem.**

* * *

_PART ONE: EX TENEBRIS_

1: Awakening

It felt like emerging from an infinite darkness. A black and empty sea, with nothing but rapidly fading afterthoughts of horror and evil and daemonic laughter.

"We have to do SOMETHING," a voice was saying.

He was conscious. It was difficult to compare it with what had come Before, but somehow knew he was conscious.

"What do you propose we do?" another voice said.

This darkness was different somehow. Thinner. A veil already beginning to part. All he had to do was reach out…

Light and colour entered the world. And two people standing above him. They turned and the younger one, a girl with bright yellow hair, gasped.

"I see you're awake now," the left one remarked. A young man with blue hair.

The girl leaned down. "Hey there," she greeted. Uncertain, yet friendly.

"There are better places to take a nap than on the ground you know," the man said. A titter from his companion. "Give me your hand."

He reached out. Had time to register his own bare hand and the striking purple mark upon it. Then he was being hauled up, out of the grass, out of the darkness, out of oblivion. There was a dizzying feeling as the world shifted, before slowly settling into place. He could stand.

"You all right?" the man asked.

The reply was instinctive. It came from somewhere in the darkness, from Before. "Y-yes… Thank you, Chrom."

"Ah, then you know who I am?"

His own response confused him. "No, actually, I…" Something was wrong. "It's strange… Your name, it just… came to me."

"… Hmm, how curious. Tell me, what's your name? What brings you here?"

"My name is…" He reached backwards in his mind, the mental gesture of a man moving to pat a familiar object. But nothing was there. "It's…" He reached back further, sifting through his head for a memory, some kind of remembrance. "Hmm?" There was nothing there. Only a dimly-aching void where the past should have been.

"… You don't know your own name?"

"I'm not sure if…" Panic started to well up inside him. "I'm sorry, but where am I, exactly?" He could see nothing but open countryside all around them.

"Hey, I've heard of this!" the blonde girl piped up. "It's called amnesia!"

"It's called a load of pegasus dung," said a sharp voice. It belonged to a man in an imposing suit of blue-grey armour, striding towards them. He was tall, taller than Chrom, and his expression was as stern as a commander. The windswept brown hair suggested a life of hard riding and mounted warfare. "We're to believe you remember milord's name, but not your own?"

It occurred to him that he could be in danger. "B-but it's the truth!" He realised for the first time that he was armed, a simple sword sheathed at his hip. Had he been in a battle? Suffered a blow to the head? But he didn't feel injured. He looked inside himself again, desperate to find something, _anything_… He had to give these people something, to make them believe him…

Chrom turned to the armoured man. "What if it IS true, Frederick? We can't just leave him here, alone and confused. What sort of Shepherds would we be then?"

"Just the same, milord, I must emphasise caution. 'Twould not do to let a wolf into our flock."

"Right then – we'll take him back to town and sort this out there."

He felt like a net was closing around him. "Wait just one moment. Do I have a say in this?"

Chrom smiled. "Peace, friend – I promise we'll hear all you have to say back in town. Now come."

They started walking. Between Chrom and the tall knight, he knew he had no choice but to follow.

He didn't like this. They were expecting to hear some kind of explanation when they reached the nearest town, and he did not have one. He tried again to find some recollection. To find himself. Every time he tried, his effort scraped against a black wall and was turned aside, leaving an ugly sensation in his brain. He was lost. No sense of who he was, or where he was, among strangers who were not about to let him go, one who he apparently knew better than he knew himself. What had there been Before, when he was unconscious? He tried to recall, but even that was fading. A great darkness, some kind of nightmare trance. That was all he could tell. No details. Was this permanent? Was his memory gone forever?

He tried not to dwell on that – it was terrifying.

* * *

They had been walking for the better part of an hour. He passed most of it in silence, trying in vain to piece something together in his mind. He felt like a blank slate – he had no idea who he was, how he was supposed to act. Somehow he did have an idea of what he looked like, though he had not seen his reflection since waking. A young man of middling height, lean but not scrawny, common muddy brown eyes contrasting with a head of short, tousled hair, coloured an unusual steel blue. Strange, that he should know his own appearance so instinctively, without having to remember. Were there other things he knew, without having to call them to mind? Perhaps not chunks of knowledge gained on any one occasion, but skills he had learned by increments, built together throughout his life and embedded in him on a level deeper than consciousness…

He asked the others questions. In part to pass the time, but mainly to start filling in the immense and yawning gulf in his mind. Was he to be their prisoner? No, but they wanted to be sure he was no enemy of Ylisse. What was Ylisse? Only a fine actor could pretend not to know, but it was the kingdom in which they lived. He was lucky the Shepherds were the ones to find him. Why did they wear armour if they were shepherds? It was a dangerous job. Apparently. He found the conversation a little confusing, but at least he knew their names now. Chrom he was already familiar with from somewhere. The girl was his younger sister, Lissa. And the knight was Frederick, a daunting man who nonetheless deferred to the other two.

That was when the revelation came to him. Out of the darkness, a light. A nugget from Before, as small as it was precious – his name. Lucan. He was introducing himself to the others before he even realised he remembered. It gave him a measure of hope. His name had resurfaced: surely with time he could regain more.

"Chrom, look! The town!" Lissa pointed up into the sky, her face stricken.

Smoke was curling up from beyond the trees ahead of them. Thick, iron-grey billows, some floating up in shadowy arms towards the sky, others hanging low and forbidding over the canopy.

Its meaning was not lost on Chrom. "Damn it! The town is ablaze! Those blasted brigands, no doubt… Frederick, Lissa! Quickly!

"What about him?" Frederick gave him a curt glance.

"Unless he's on fire as well, it can wait!"

"Aptly put, milord."

Lissa had already started forwards. "Let's go already!" she squawked, turning round.

And then the three of them were running, heading towards the smoke and the beleaguered town.

He stood there, dumbfounded. "But what about –" he called after them. It was no use. The fate of the town was their sole concern. "Hmm…" He gazed skywards.

Looking up at that climbing miasma made him feel strange. There was a profound sense of familiarity there… Not with the smoke, but something else. Something associated with it. He watched the tops of the grey stacks as they were carried away by the higher winds.

It called to him. Not the smoke, the other thing – that intimately-familiar unknown. He felt it pulling at him… a whisper of promised violence that did not disturb him as much as it should.

He could run away. His would-be detainers had rushed off and left him. There was nothing to stop him from going on his way.

One foot stepped in front of the other. And again and again, until he too was running towards the smoke.

* * *

It was a fairly well-to-do place, from what he could tell. Stone buildings instead of wood or cob. Tiled roofs instead of thatch. Nonetheless, many of the houses burned from the inside, coughing out that grey smoke as their wooden furnishings and rafters were consumed by fire.

He met no one as he ran through the narrow streets. He had expected milling bodies, confused and fearful cries. But the town was oddly empty. Either the townsfolk had fled, or they had been rounded up by whatever people had done this.

He found the others at the edge of the town square. Frederick had reacquired his warhorse from somewhere. They had found the town's attackers and were readying themselves for a charge.

"Wait!" he shouted.

Chrom's head snapped round. "Lucan! You followed us! Why?"

"I… I'm not certain myself," he answered truthfully. "But I'm armed, and I know my way around a fight, if you'll have me."

"Of course – strength in numbers. Just stay close!"

He drew his own sword. He had discovered a magic tome in a large inside coat pocket, but chose instead to try the strength of his arm. The weight of the blade felt familiar in his hand. He _did_ know his way around a fight… But how well? And how did he know that?

He had no time to dwell on it. In an instant Chrom was surging forward into the town square and he followed a step behind.

The nearest of them were barely a dozen metres away, upturning market stalls or hacking idly at the produce while they shouted raucously. The tension in his gut intensified at the sight of the enemy. He could feel his innards twisting and bunching like taut rope.

His eyes widened –

_Eleven men, scattered. Five in the square, three close._

– Chrom was running to meet the first of the ruffians –

– _135 pounds, 180 centimetres, hard and wiry, disciplined stance, 12 years' training, as strong as Chrom but faster, sword designed for cutting –_

– He saw it even as he ran behind Chrom. Suddenly Frederick was there, lance couched to deliver a devastating blow through the man's shoulder. Chrom reached him a second later, swinging his blade in a killing arc that sent a line of shocking crimson across the cobbled stones –

– _Two more in close range, both hardened killers, another two across the square moving in, one a mage, the other five gathered around their leader waiting to see what happens –_

– The flood of insight was unstoppable. Numbers. Equipment. Skills. Experience. Intention. It rushed into his brain with the intensity of a storm. The only thing more startling than the wave of information was his ability to process it. His mind stored it all, and with room for more. Even marvelling at what he knew and how quickly he knew it happened in an instant, as if occurring outside of time, and all the while he saw, and thought, and moved.

One of the nearest brigands came at him. A hulking, reeking brute crudely clad in animal furs –

– _210 pounds, 195 centimetres, slight limp on right leg, strong but unpractised, low pain tolerance,_ _simple iron axe: brutal, effective, unrefined, reach 1.5 metres –_

– There was no deduction. No scrutiny or careful consideration. He simply saw, and knew.

The man lunged towards him, right shoulder twisted, telegraphing the swing, growling as he brought the axe round in a wild cut.

He stepped away, ducking smartly beneath the attack with reflexes he would not have credited himself with, before flicking a returning jab that must have been practised ten thousand times. It gouged the man's arm, provoking a bark of pain and an angrier swing of the axe. He dodged away again.

Exhilaration. Joyous terror and terrible joy, clamouring in his chest. He did not think, he simply _moved_. The fighting required no mind, no memory. He was a blank slate, an empty vessel, and it did not hinder him. His brain did not recall the technique, but his muscles did. His nerves did. The draw, the parry, the strike, the sure steps – he felt an emotion for the movements akin to a homecoming. The sensation resonated through his body, until it felt like his very cells ringing with joy at the clash of metal, the contest of skill and death.

Chrom joined him with a cut that swept away one of the ruffian's legs. He stepped close and plunged his blade downwards at the base of the man's throat, ending his life with a bloody squelch and a sickly thrill of triumph.

As one they turned, only to find another swordsman already upon them. A glance was enough to know he could outmatch either of them. The lunge he aimed at Chrom was parried – just – while the follow-up scraped against his silver shoulder plate.

Suddenly the tome was in his other hand. He let the sword drop and _willed_, pulling something ethereal into existence with a sense he could not explain. His right hand sparked, clenching tight a ball of blinding energy that fought for release.

He let it go, and it flew into bandit swordsman, blasting him to the ground with a scream. The man lay still where he fell, threads of gold lightning flashing over his body before vanishing an instant.

His hand crackled with wicked power. Chrom stood hunched over while his sister healed a gash in his side. They stared at him, disbelieving.

"You know magic?" Chrom asked.

"I… Yes, but…" How could he explain what was happening? "It's strange… Here on the battlefield, I can… Well, I can 'see' things." Across the square, Frederick was riding down one of the brigands as he tried to get away.

"See things? Like what?"

_– mage coming for us, powerful tome but not used to fighting, rest waiting at the town hall _–

"The enemy's strength, their weaponry, the flow of battle… I must have studied this somewhere." That had to be the explanation, didn't it? Yet even so…

"So, you're saying you can size up the enemy in a glance?"

"Yes, it would seem so. And perhaps more, if I apply myself…"

He did not have time to finish what he was saying. He saw the mage pointing at him and dived towards one of the stalls, narrowly avoiding the incandescent blast which followed. He hurled a wayward bolt of lightning in return, but the angle was awkward and he missed by some distance.

It was enough though. The brief exchange gave Chrom time to close the gap, and up-close the rogue wizard had no chance – faced with a charging swordsman he fumbled with his tome in a panic, and Chrom cut him down with a pair of arcing strikes before he could cast another spell.

With that, the fighting – for the moment – seemed to be over. The four of them consolidated at the other end of the square, Chrom speaking about the battle as Lissa ministered to Frederick's collection of light injuries.

"You've lent us your strength, and that makes you a friend," Chrom was saying to him. He glanced at Frederick and Lissa. "Are we ready? The rest of them are on the other side of the bridge. Stay together, this is where it gets tough!"

–_ Anger, impatience, trepidation, snarling orders to hold ground and keep close _–

"No, wait!"

Chrom paused. "What's wrong, Lucan?"

"The leader _wants_ us to charge them," he said. "He wants us to get in close, so they can finish us off with superior numbers." Over on the other side of the bridge, he could discern the restless shifting, the close formation threatening to break with murderous intent. "We should use his own plan against him. His men are undisciplined. It won't take much to lure them forward and take them out a couple at a time."

Chrom gazed towards the town hall, his expression stern. "Are you sure?"

"… I'm certain of it."

"Then that's our plan."

* * *

What followed was a fluid dance of war, a tapestry of false retreats and ripostes, punctuated at its end by a final, fatal counterattack.

The brigands had proven as aggressive and impatient as he'd said, rushing at them with no thought for tactics or group coherence, only eager to inflict their rough violence on the strangers who opposed them. In ones and twos they fell until only a couple were left, too few to save themselves.

Their leader was the last to go, a war-painted monstrosity who goaded them with mocking words even as he grimaced, red-faced and furious, at his lackeys' reckless mistake. Surrounded by the four of them, he did not live long.

Afterwards, he stood staring down at one of the stained corpses. His nerves still thrummed with the ecstasy of the battlefield and the joy of being alive. The vision of death at his feet was startling, but not as much as he expected – he was more shocked at not being shocked. And the act of killing… in the moment, that had held its own despicable glee. He wasn't sure just how sick with himself he should feel at that. Did Chrom and Frederick feel the same, when they killed in battle? He wasn't about to ask.

And then there were the other things. The skills and unconscious instincts, and the cerebral vision with which he had been able to see every detail of the skirmish. To possess the abilities of both a swordsman and a mage must have required long hours of training, and not being able to recall any of it was disconcerting; it raised yet more questions he couldn't answer. Nor did he understand the flashes of insight that had come to him. He must have studied strategy, and diligently, but that couldn't be the whole explanation. Some of the things he'd known he could not have simply picked up from reading books… What was going on? Was this something that only triggered in fight situations, or could he apply it at will?

"Well, that's the end of that," he said absently, only dimly aware he was speaking.

"Lucky for the town, we were close by," Lissa said. The unexpected reply snapped him out of his thoughts. "But holy cow, Lucan! You were incredible! Swords, sorcery AND tactics! Is there anything you can't do?"

"You're certainly no helpless victim, that's for sure," Chrom remarked.

"Indeed," Frederick added. He could already hear the steely sarcasm. "Perhaps you might even be capable of an explanation for how you came here?"

"I understand your scepticism, Sir Frederick. And I cannot explain why only some knowledge has returned to me. But please, believe me. I have shared all that I know." He _wanted_ them to believe him, to know that he meant no harm, and a distant part of his mind wondered why.

Chrom gave him a measuring look. "You fought to save Ylissean lives. My heart says that's enough."

Frederick was not done. "And your mind, milord? Will you not heed its counsel as well?"

Chrom turned to the knight. "Frederick, the Shepherds could use someone with Lucan's talents. We've brigands and unruly neighbours, all looking to bloody our soil. Would you really have us lose such an able tactician? Besides, I believe his story, odd as it might be."

Even if there was still much he did not understand, that expression of trust was warming. "Th-thank you, Chrom."

"So how about it? Will you join us, Lucan?"

In the years that followed, he would often think back on that day and that moment. Even in dark times, when the mysterious power of Destiny appeared to thunder on along its malign course, it would serve as a reminder to him that the path of history was ever-changeable, that lives could be written or rewritten for the better by a single encounter, or by a single response.

Lucan smiled. "I would be honoured," he said.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Just wanted to add, thank you very much to the reviewers! Ceadeus-slayer: indeed, I too was rather peeved by the support conversations between Noire and the Avatar (as her father). I don't know if I will get that far, but relatively recently I have come up with an idea about how that whole situation would play out between Noire, Tharja and Lucan. I don't have all the details yet, but hopefully it would be an interesting way of treating it.**

* * *

2: Who am I?

It was the perennial question; the one he asked himself a hundred times a day.

_Who am I?_

It was the first thing he wondered every morning, when he woke up and recalled where he was.

_Who am I?_

It was the question he asked as they travelled ever further up the Northroad, wondering if a passing village or tree by the roadside would call up hidden memories from the formless black inside his mind. It was the question he asked himself even as he talked with the Shepherds and shared laughter with them around the campfire, when a remote voice in his head queried whether the real Lucan would have found joy in the conversation.

_Who am I?_

It was the question that would not easily let him rest when they made their camp at night, when he could not tell if the unremembered things he saw in his dreams were premonitions or memories or the confused imaginings of an idle brain. It was the riddle he was confronted with whenever he contemplated the disturbing mark on his hand or bathed in the tributary rivers they passed, staring intently down at the pale face in the water, the reflection shifting and elusive as his own identity.

_Who are you?_

* * *

Several days had passed since Chrom and Lissa had found him in that empty field, and since then he had learned much: Chrom and Lissa were royalty, younger siblings of the serene Exalt; the Shepherds were an irregular militia; Plegia was a threat to Ylisse; hideous unliving creatures called 'Risen' had started to appear; they marched north now to seek the friendship and support of Regna Ferox against the roaming abominations. The things he knew about the world around him grew day by day, and yet the things he knew about himself remained disappointingly few. In quiet moments he would sit and contemplate his past, trying to remember something from Before… But it was always futile. Beyond the events after Chrom and Lissa found him, no memories would return to his mind.

He had taken to systematising what little knowledge of himself he did have, scribing mental notes in his brain under headed categories.

Belongings.

As far as he could tell, he only owned what had been found on his person. A sword, a tome, a small purse of coins, a small knife, the clothes on his back. The coat was an odd thing – even during his brief visit to the capital, he had seen nothing like it on anyone else. Good quality, black and hooded with a tall inner collar, decorated with gold trim and purple lines, and a cryptic motif repeated on the sleeves. Aside from that, he owned little of note or value.

Interests.

There was depressingly little here too. Was he a very dull person? He was interested by a great many things, but that was not the same as having a hobby. He liked reading, it seemed, but there had been little opportunity to pursue that. He had borrowed the few books Miriel had brought with her, invariably discursive texts on magic and nature, and within a couple of days he had finished them. The speed was remarkable, but it left his mind voracious and with nothing to satisfy it.

He had begun to despair of ever discovering more about himself, until one evening when he was absently shaving away at a piece of branch with his knife. When he looked down, something was beginning to take shape there. He continued carving away, guided by instinct, the blade giving purpose to the unformed wood. Before long he was left with the vague outline of a miniature soldier, shield and spear upright as he stood to attention. He knew something of woodworking! He could shape small objects out of trunk and branch with a will!

It was only a small thing really, but at that moment it had felt like rediscovering a lost friend.

Personality.

He had an inquisitive nature. He was sure of it. Anyone who woke up without their memories was bound to have a lot of questions, but it was more than that. He had asked Chrom and the other Shepherds just about everything he could think of: about themselves, about Ylisse, about the rest of the world. He had learned of Frederick's interest in gathering rare mushrooms, listened to Vaike talk about his home town, quizzed the merry, evasive Virion about his noble background and discussed Sully's exercise and training methods. Every moment he spent in the company of the Shepherds, he was talking, questioning, getting to know these new companions as well as he could.

He was also a kind and friendly person… He thought? At least, it was something he aspired to be. One of the first things he had noticed about himself was how much he wanted to fit in with the Shepherds. It went beyond a need to belong – he seemed to care about what others thought of him. Several times he had found himself trying in earnest to assure Frederick of his good intentions, or to be agreeable towards his new companions. Frederick had yet to really trust him, but the others at least were welcoming.

Skills.

He possessed a fondness for swordplay. The resonant thrill he had felt in that first battle had been born from thousands of hours training, he was sure. He had calluses at the base of each finger, more pronounced on his stronger right hand, from gripping tightly to the handle of a weapon. After his first meeting with the Shepherds at their barracks he had taken time to handle some of the items in the armoury, testing the feel of them and practising one or two strikes. The axes were a little too cumbersome for comfort, and he wasn't certain how to stand properly to wield any of the pole arms, but generally the swords had felt good in his hand. He also felt something, a predilection maybe, a profound sense of familiarity. In any case, it was clear that he not only pursued the way of the blade, he enjoyed it.

Yet if he enjoyed swords, he revered magic. Sorcery was no doubt his chief talent. It took focus and control, and yet that seemed to come to him so easily. When he held a tome, he could reach out and draw upon the aether as easily as running his fingers through a pool of water. Yet even there, he had his preferences. Although he could wield the powers of wind and fire, it was lightning he felt the deepest connection with. To him, those golden barbs of energy seemed alive. They responded to him like a sentient being – as if an implicit understanding passed between them – and when he cast its magic, the power went _through_ him, a current in the blood that made him rejoice. He wondered if it was stronger now than on the day Chrom and Lissa had found him.

Then of course there was strategy. The cold blaze of knowledge that lighted up his mind's eye in the midst of battle, allowing him to see things he shouldn't possibly understand. It was an extraordinary gift; one that worried him more than a love of swords or magic ever could.

* * *

Lucan returned to camp one evening after his shift on guard duty to find the others sitting close around the fire – as usual. Their journey north was bringing them into steadily colder climes, and the Ylissean countryside had taken on a bleak and rugged appearance; the trees were mostly stern evergreens covered with the lightest dusting of snow, and the ground was hard, unadorned with the flowers further south.

Chrom was the first to notice his approach. "Lucan. Everything all right?"

"Yes," he replied. "It's a quiet night. Stahl, Frederick says it's your turn on watch with him."

Stahl gave the briefest of sighs. "Got it," he said, getting up from his spot by the fire. "Take my place, Lucan. It'll be warmer for you."

"Thanks." After two hours standing in the frosty darkness of the woods, he was happy to oblige, and took his seat with the others. Chrom sat cross-legged and pensive, the sheathed Falchion across his lap. Lissa huddled sourly next to him, thoroughly displeased with the cold, while Vaike lounged on the ground not far away. Sully and Miriel sat opposite on a fallen tree trunk, Miriel rereading one of her books, Sully polishing the blade of her sword by the firelight. The mysterious Virion was nowhere to be seen.

"What were you talking about before I arrived?" he asked, picking up a nearby stick and taking out his knife.

"Just discussing the good old days," Chrom replied. "Some of the past Shepherds we used to know and what's become of them."

"I see." The mood around the fire these days was a curious thing, he'd noticed – always teetering between tense sobriety and nervous mirth. Lucan supposed it was because of their victory in the recent battle, the fear of death and these unknown creatures, and the uncertain road which lay ahead of them.

Lissa shuddered noisily. "Why does it have to be so darn _cold_? Chrom, do you think it's much further? I don't know how much more I can take of camping outdoors!"

"We must be pretty close to the Longfort by now," Chrom told her. "If we're lucky, we'll reach it in the next day or so."

"The Longfort?" Lucan asked.

"It's a fortress on the border of Ferox. From there, the Khans control who leaves and enters their land. That's where we need to go to express our intentions."

"And do you think they'll agree to help Ylisse?"

"I don't know. But we need them to. I've been thinking about our encounters with the Risen. I've never seen or heard of anything like it. I'm concerned about what it could mean for Ylisse if we don't deal with them quickly… But we know almost nothing about this threat, where they came from or what their aim is." Chrom turned to look at him. "You're our tactician, Lucan. What are your thoughts?"

Lucan noticed the others were listening attentively. "I… couldn't possibly tell what they will do."

"Speculate if you have to."

He gave the problem some consideration. "They're savage. They don't show any signs of being able to speak or understand words being said. But they're capable of wielding weapons, and we've seen them move with group coordination in battle. Whatever they are, it looks like their sole purpose is to bring terror and destruction." He tapped his knife thoughtfully against the stick. "When that cataclysm erupted, we saw those things falling from the sky. That suggests magic is involved. And you said that the council heard reports of other sightings, elsewhere in Ylisse? So we know it wasn't an isolated incident, but we don't know if they have been found in other kingdoms. Given that they seem to have been brought here by magic, I suspect they might have been summoned through some arcane ritual, with the aim of creating strife in Ylisse."

Chrom's countenance was grave. "You're saying that Plegia is likely involved in these attacks?"

He gave a cautious nod. "It's a strong possibility."

"Gods! If it's true, they're even more depraved than I thought!"

"They wouldn't do that though, would they?" Lissa asked her brother. "How could anyone do something so horrible?"

Sully scoffed from the other side of the fire. "Who cares where those freaks came from? If there are more, we'll beat the crap out of 'em like we did the last two times."

"Damn straight, sister!" Vaike chipped in. "Don't matter if it's Plegians or walking corpses. With the Vaike around, there's nothin' to fear!"

Sully scoffed again. "I dunno what YOU'RE bragging about. All you did in that last fight was stand around and watch other people do the dirty work."

"Heeeeey! I took down my fair share of those guys!"

"Only after Miriel arrived and brought your axe for you!" Lissa grumbled. The mage shook her head in recollection.

"Aww, come on! You're not still going on about that! It's like I told you before: one of those Risen fellas must have snuck up and stole it while I was talking."

"You are proposing," Miriel began, "that one of these creatures infiltrated our ranks, while evading detection, and drew close to your position – purely for the purpose of displacing your weapon, which it purloined as you conversed with the others and without being seen by anyone, then returned to its brethren, still undetected, leaving the axe behind instead of keeping it in its possession?"

Sully chuckled. "She's got you cold, Vaike."

Vaike was affronted. "Are you sayin' I was useless? 'Cause I'll have you know I helped out A LOT in that battle!"

"Sure. Right. Dunno what we would have done if you hadn't been there. Made all the difference with you standin' behind everyone yellin' '_Teach is watching_'!"

Sully's Vaike impression was so good it brought a smile to Chrom's face, while Lissa and Lucan laughed outright. A moment later Chrom also began to chuckle quietly, until he too was laughing hard. One by one they joined in – even Vaike, whose chest heaved with suppressed guffaws even as he scowled. They laughed helplessly and for the sake of it, not knowing why, swept up in a gale of mirth that had little to do with impressions of Teach.

* * *

Later, when the fire had died and the Shepherds lay down for the night, the fears and mysteries he held back during the day descended on him again like baleful wolves, led by that one unrelenting beast.

_Who am I?_

Contemplation of that riddle had opened up new uncertainties for him. Without his memories, was he truly the same person he was before? Were his likes and dislikes the same? His personality? Who exactly was he, Before?

He thought back to the battle on the Northroad, where they had been ambushed by a host of Risen. For all they talked and laughed about it now, their situation had been dire. At the time he had doubted they would survive, and though none of others said it, he was sure they had felt the same. The Risen were terrible foes: wheezing, snarling undead horrors that had somehow forced their way into reality from the stuff of nightmares. And they had been so strong, so many… It was only taking advantage of the terrain that had saved them. He had directed them to the foot of a small cliff, and there they made their stand against the monsters, cutting them down one row at a time, repeating a close-knit fighting drill he had devised on the spot. And when they encountered more of them further up the road they had performed a false retreat, returning to the same place and repeating the process. It was not the open, daring warfare of a heroic poem. It was cold. It was merciless. It was efficient. It made him question where and why he had studied military science and the art of war. Just how much of it was training, and how much was natural talent? So far the visions and insights that came to him had proven extremely useful, but they scared him.

_Am I just a weapon? Is that my purpose?_

He wondered if it was true, and if that made him a monster himself. Had he been evil before? If so, did that mean he still was now? The thought horrified him, and yet he could not be sure. Was a remnant of his previous self still inside him, a kind of ghost in a shell?

Over the past few days he had had time to reflect on why he decided to join Chrom and the Shepherds. A large part of it had simply been a need to attach himself to people in a world he did not know or recognise, but he wanted to believe it was more than that: that he had found in Chrom a kindred spirit, in the Shepherds a worthy place and purpose. He could not be certain, though – not without knowing who he had been in the time Before. He was starting to wonder if he really wanted to know. If he was different now, would the recollection of his past transform him? Destroy the Lucan that had started to take form after he woke up in that empty field?

And that led him to another, more terrifying thought.

_Can this happen to me again? Will I wake tomorrow with no memory?_

If that happened, a person would rise in the morning, alive and physically well, but a vital part of that consciousness would be lost. Memory was life, he'd decided, and every night he lay down to rest not knowing if he would die in his sleep.

It almost made a mockery of his efforts to rediscover who he was. The best he could do was to salvage as much as possible from his past and try to move on with his life. But how was a person supposed to just start again? How did he establish a new sense of self, with no present and the ghost of the past still haunting him?

He stretched on his sleeping mat and tilted his head to look northwards. Somewhere out there, there were people who knew him; family, friends, maybe even enemies. Would he meet them in Ferox? Or ever?

It was kind of pitiful, really. The Shepherds' new tactician knew all manner of things about fighting and strategy, but he did not know himself. It was a profoundly alien feeling.

He could only hope things would get easier along the way.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note – Eep. Ceadeus-slayer, I dread to think how much time and effort it would take to match the killing pace you'd have me set! I should probably mention that I already had the second chapter written, I just wanted to give myself a week before uploading it. Similarly, I had most of this one (except for the final scene) written before I started putting chapters on here. In my defence though, it is longer than both of the first two combined, so really it should count as two updates! Ha-ha! (As Nowi might say). I wanted to complete this a few days earlier, but I've had a good excuse, what with it being Christmas and all.**

**I don't know if I'll be able to update every week or two weeks from this point onwards. I'm going to have some high-priority real-life type stuff going on for the next several months, but I will try to keep it up with the chapters, even if it means just doing a little every day or couple of days.**

**Anyway, here's number 3. Hopefully it's decent.**

* * *

3: Ring of Steel, Gauntlet of Blood

The room was spare; a square, windowless chamber, unfurnished and undecorated, a dozen torch brackets fastened into the great stones of the walls.

"Again!" Frederick commanded. "One – two – three – four –" his voice rapped sharply, each call punctuated by the clang of blunted steel. Lucan swept through the drill with him, long practice having made the motions as familiar as an old story. He had come far in learning the language of the Ylissean longsword since the start of their training. No longer was he worrying about the basics of grip and stance and footwork – now he could follow Frederick's execution and respond in kind, and when he focused on his technique the challenge was not form or fluency but subtlety and nuance.

"Faster," Frederick barked. The knight duly increased his pace, seeking to test his reactions at full battle-speed. "One – two – three – four –!" He swung at Lucan with the first of the five master cuts. Lucan stepped out of line and met the blade with his own. Frederick immediately swung again with the third cut, adjusting his position to create an awkward angle for the parry. Lucan switched to the high outside guard, shifting his feet to accommodate the blow admirably.

So it went, Frederick unrelenting in his attacks, varying the cut and angle every time, Lucan pressed to read each move in an instant.

Several days had passed since their arrival in Ferox. Their initial welcome had been far from ideal, having their intentions questioned and being greeted with open hostility. They were issued the challenge of storming the Longfort if they wanted to be taken seriously – then immediately had to defend themselves from an unprovoked attack. They, a small escort party on a diplomatic mission, forced into fighting their way through a major fortress against an entire garrison of talented and steel-hardened warriors. It should have been impossible. One mistake, one casualty among the Shepherds, and Lucan doubted Chrom would have forgiven them. It would have soured any discussion with the Khans and ruined their hopes for an alliance. But Chrom and Frederick had put their trust in him again, and somehow – with close formations and unorthodox fighting drills – they had come through. Frederick said that in Ferox strength spoke louder than words, but Lucan still thought it had been a waste of good men.

Now they were faced with a new challenge: championing the cause of the East Khan, Flavia, in winning back ascendancy over all the Feroxi lands. With her in power, Ylisse stood to gain the support of Ferox against the Risen, as well as any troubles that Plegia might cause.

All they had to do was emerge victorious against the West Khan's chosen in a customary fight to the death, held in Ferox's Grand Arena.

Their meeting with Khan Flavia and her subsequent offer had been just under three weeks before the night of the tournament, and their time since then had been largely spent in intensive training. Now there were only five days left for them to prepare and decide on the six people who would take part.

"Enough," Frederick said, lowering his sword. Lucan let his guard fall, giving his weary deltoids a blessed chance to rest. "As usual, the pace of your progress is impressive, Lucan. The position of your blade is sometimes a fraction off when you meet the first cut, and you waste precious moments with a slight flourish when you switch from the high guard." Lucan acknowledged the points with an attentive nod. "But your general proficiency is remarkable – if you were to join the knights of Ylisse, you certainly would not disgrace yourself."

"Thank you, Frederick," Lucan smiled. "If I've come a long way from when we started, it's mainly because I have a great teacher! It does make me wonder though…" he added, less cheerfully, "… At the rate I'm progressing… am I really learning this for the first time?"

Frederick still did not completely believe Lucan had lost his memory, and therefore said nothing on the matter. "I see you are not near as tired now as when we first started your training," the knight observed instead. "That is just as well – your stamina in the beginning left much to be desired." It was true. In the beginning their lessons had left Lucan ragged; now he stood straight, breathing deeply and coated in sweat but not exhausted. If Frederick had insisted they continue, he would have been able to without much trouble.

"You're right," he said. "I just hope it'll be enough if we're going to have to fight in Arena Ferox five days from now."

"It will have to be. Ylisse needs this alliance," Frederick replied. "You've done enough today. Make sure you get plenty of rest and a good meal in the morning. We will start again at dawn tomorrow."

"Got it." Lucan walked over to where his coat lay and picked it up. "Thanks again for your help, Frederick – I really appreciate it."

He left the training room with the deep, satisfying weariness of one who has spent the day at hard work. It was evening now, and he did not meet anyone on the corridors except for a couple of servants and a pair of tall, long-limbed Feroxi swordsmen who stared at him dourly as he passed. They were staying in a small fortress just east of the Grand Arena, the guests of Khan Flavia while they prepared for the tournament. The architecture was markedly different from that of Ylisse. Where the castle at Ylisstol had richly furnished rooms and intricate design, the Feroxi preferred simplicity: the hallways were broad, draughty passages, sometimes open to the elements, with low ceilings that formed wide, gently-curving arches between the broad supporting columns; the rooms were typically large and uncluttered chambers, unadorned except for the coloured stone tiling that was Ferox's chief art form.

He paused by one of the columns and looked out across the snowy wilderness, glad of the coat and the training that warmed his body against the vorpal northwinds. He could see Arena Ferox from here, the great ringed edifice where five days from now he and his friends would have to fight and kill not only for their own lives, but for all of Ylisse…

There was something dreadful about that idea. The rush of the battlefield held its own exquisite terror, but everyone felt that this was something else. Knowing exactly when and where their next fight would take place made the wait nigh unbearable, and there was a terrible gravity about going into a mortal duel against a handful of select opponents. It made the contest almost personal, a struggle between bitter enemies rather than a fight to protect the innocent. And all the while, people would be watching, screaming at them, clamouring with thousands of voices to see their blood stain the ground, all for their delight. Lucan wasn't sure this anticipation was more frightening than a battle, but in some ways it was harder to bear.

He wondered about the Feroxi opponents they would be up against. If the strength of the Longfort's garrison was any kind of gauge, they were in for a dire challenge. These were a proud and belligerent people, made strong by hardship and aggression, with a fierce reputation for martial prowess. In all likelihood the warriors they faced in the arena would be even more adept than the border guards – they would be the formidable chosen of the ruling West Khan, hand-picked for their ferocity and killing skills. A part of him was worried they would be severely outclassed in the tournament, that several of their comrades would fall quickly, leaving the rest of them to be hopelessly slaughtered. He tried to imagine gentle Stahl facing off against one of those swordsmen he had passed, and the thought did not give him any comfort. There would be no terrain for them to exploit this time – it would be a contest of pure skill and determination.

There was a shuffling behind him to his left, followed by the scrape of metal on stone. He caught furtive movement and dodged just in time before something sharp crashed against the stone pillar next to him.

Adrenaline. Fear.

His sword was halfway out of its scabbard before he realised who it was.

"Hey, Lucan!"

"Vaike!? Gods, what are you doing!?"

Vake hoisted his axe up, resting the shaft on his shoulder. "I just thought I'd give ya a demonstration of my awesome fighting skills."

"Why would I need to see a demonstration?"

"Because! I had to show you what you'll be missing if you don't pick me for the arena."

"And you thought the best way to prove your point was by cutting my head off!?"

"Aww, please! I knew you'd get out the way on time. Teach was goin' easy on ya."

"Great. Now I feel a lot better," he said, resheathing the sword. In truth, his opinion of Vaike had taken a turn for the worse during their journey north, when he'd caught the man trying to spy on Sully bathing. Their panicked escape from her horse was an experience he never wanted to repeat.

"So how 'bout it? Look, I know Chrom. He's a good fighter and all, but he might not make it if I'm not there to help. You need to pick me for the team if we're gonna win this thing."

Lucan sighed. "It's still too soon to tell who will be our best people to take. We've got five more days of training before we have to choose. And it's not my decision to make – Chrom will have the final say."

"Yeah, but he listens to you. You could put in a good word for me. You gotta tell him we don't stand a chance without the Vaike!"

"I'm not going to lie to Chrom. I'll tell him what I honestly think when the time comes."

"Come on, Lucan!" Vaike moaned. "Ya can't leave me behind while Chrom goes and takes all the glory! We gotta see which of us wins over the crowd!"

"Good night, Vaike. I'll see you tomorrow in training."

The rest of the journey back to his room was thankfully axe-free. He had been allocated a room on the second floor, an old servants' chamber repurposed as humble guest quarters. After lighting the braziers, he took off his coat and sword belt, threw them onto the bed, then sat down heavily in one of the two chairs placed by the room's square table.

He glanced over at the bed where he had put down his things. Tonight, when he lay there he would once again go to sleep wondering if it would be him that woke up tomorrow morning, or some other Lucan, one devoid of all memory. Two weeks back he had resolved to write down a summary of everything that had happened to him since Chrom had found him in that field, so that if he lost his memory again he would at least have some answers. Nonetheless, if this was to be his last night in this consciousness, he did not want it to end yet. And aside from that, he felt oddly restless despite the fatigue. He considered carrying on with some woodworking, but decided against it. He had the beginnings of a small militia of wooden soldiers by now, gathered in the corner amongst a strew of wood shavings and a work stool, but he did not feel like starting another one tonight.

Instead he reached for one of the books on the table. Lucan had been allowed to procure some texts from the fort's modest collection. It nowhere near matched the expanse of Ylisstol's library, a place he had so far only glimpsed during Lissa's brief tour, but he was glad of anything he could get hold of. His days were mostly spent now in the training yard with the other Shepherds, but something in his mind still hungered, and when he wasn't practising alone with Frederick after hours he would often be reading whatever books he could find. The content mattered little – in the past week alone he had read a concise history of Regna Ferox in three volumes, a fascinating treatise on strategy he had devoured in one sitting, a literary tale about the Hero-King, and an exhaustive compendium on maritime lore. The weeks went by with no further revelations about his past, but he continued to learn more and more about the world. His mind took it all with an astounding speed and voracity, assimilating the information and storing it with a capacity even he found startling.

On this occasion he took up _Discerning the Arcane_, a thin, purple-bound manuscript he had not yet started. He tried to settle his mind to the task of reading.

_Just as poets seldom create the words they wield, so too it is with mages. Poets select the words for their art, forming verse and phrase from carefully chosen elements, fashioning their magic from components already made and familiar to the minds of men. The practise of sorcery is little different in this respect. The components of magic are no less abstract than a word, or the thought behind it. The craft of the mage is not to reinvent the known elements but to combine them effectively, and as the poet must adhere to rules of grammar and convention, so too must the mage follow the rules of the arcane, for even the slightest transgression can have perilous consequences…_

The analogy was fascinating. Yet already, Lucan could feel he was too restless to focus on the book. Something was troubling him. Something about what Vaike had said earlier, his thoughts before that, and the warning Frederick had issued before they finished for the night.

As the group's tactician, he was going to have to determine which of them should face the challenge of the looming tournament. He knew that already. But as Frederick had said, Ylisse _needed_ this victory, for the alliance that would result from it. That put a whole new pressure on them, and on him to make the right decision. Who among the Shepherds was good enough to defeat some of the most dangerous men in Regna Ferox? Sully was dogged, Virion skilful. Sumia was fast, and having air support in the arena might prove vital, but he doubted she was ready for such a fraught encounter – Sumia certainly didn't think so. Would Vaike be a better choice? Vaike could be reckless, but there was no denying he had talent. His strength would be a great asset in the arena. Lucan just wondered if more strength was what they needed.

Every day they trained hard, in groups, in pairs, alone, but there was only so much they could achieve through practice. It wasn't enough to base his judgement on how well everyone performed. He needed something else. Something that might give them a slender edge over the West Khan's fearsome champions.

Sitting there in the orange glow of the braziers, an idea came to him.

* * *

The door to the Khan's chambers was a sturdy, imposing thing. Tall and square it stood, alone on the corridor except for a storage room and a staircase at the far end, banded and studded with dark grey iron and set with a pair of rings that served as door knockers. No guards stood outside. Lucan wondered if soldiers were posted within the rooms, or if the Khan was confident enough in her martial prowess to fight off attackers on her own.

He took hold of one of the iron rings and banged it five times against the door. After several moments waiting the door opened a few meagre inches, revealing a woman with untidily cut hair wearing the sweeping fabrics of a Feroxi myrmidon.

"What do you want, Ylissean?" she demanded. He'd noted that many Feroxi warriors spoke with such characteristic stark bluntness.

"I wish to speak with the Khan," he said, wondering if he was, in fact, from Ylisse.

"The Khan is not granting audiences now. It is late."

"I know, but this is important. It could be what helps her win back complete authority over the kingdom."

The attendant stared sourly at him for a moment before disappearing into the room and closing the door.

Lucan stood there for some time, wondering if that was as close as he was going to get. Eventually it opened again – wider – and he stepped inside. He found himself in a space roughly double the size of his room, an antechamber to the rest of the East Khan's living quarters.

"You will wait here," the swordswoman said. A statement rather than an instruction. With that she stalked through the open doorway opposite and was gone.

Lucan tried to kill the time waiting by observing his surroundings, but typical of Feroxi decor, there was little to see. The floor was pattered with the same coloured tiling he had seen elsewhere, black, grey, beige and varying shades of brown forming an spiralling sun motif in the centre of the room. A broad, uncomfortable-looking stone bench was pushed up against one wall, and dominated the right side of the chamber. Half a dozen torches burned from wall brackets around the room. Lucan supposed it stood to reason that a Khan would demonstrate the same martial austerity in their living quarters as that found elsewhere in Ferox – even if their status entitled them to some adornment and display.

Soon he heard assured footsteps approaching, and then East Khan Flavia appeared, striding into the antechamber with a warrior's purposeful gait.

"Good evening, Lucan," she said in her strong voice. She still wore her plated armour, and Lucan wondered if she was still training this late. "What brings you to my chambers at this hour?"

"I, uh, wanted to speak to you about the upcoming tournament," he said, a little flustered. "I have an idea that might help win back power from the West Khan."

"Really? And you decided it would not wait until the morning?"

"Well, not…"

"Does Prince Chrom know of this? Come now, I hope you don't think I'm interested in a romantic tryst!"

"Uh, no! I would never… I mean – That's…" He felt his face heat up in spite of himself.

Khan Flavia gave a hearty laugh. "Peace, Lucan. It was only a jest. Consider us even now after your comments about my mannish appearance." He had really hoped not to be reminded of that. "Please continue."

"Uh, yes. Well…" He struggled to find his beginning. Gods, but the woman certainly had _presence_. He'd felt himself almost physically shrink as soon as she entered the room. "As Chrom's tactician, I've been thinking very carefully about our best course of action to win the tournament."

"And? What conclusion have you drawn?"

"That I simply don't have enough information to ensure our victory. I could scrutinise everyone in the Shepherds looking for the best fighters, and it might not make a difference."

"What do you propose?"

"You may not have complete authority over the kingdom, but you're still the East Khan. You have power and influence that no one else has." He was dithering, like a fool. "In your position, you must have access to certain resources… information that could prove useful."

Khan Flavia regarded him solemnly, the clear, bright eyes a startling contrast against her dusky face. "Speak plainly, Lucan. You mean spies."

Lucan braced himself. "Yes. I came here to ask if you could find a way to spy on the West Khan. Discover the identity of his champions, what kind of warriors they are. Anything that could help me plan against them."

He understood that Ferox was a place where deeds spoke louder than words, where openness and honesty was highly valued. He wasn't sure the suggestion of subterfuge would be well received. For what it was worth, Khan Flavia did not appear outraged or indignant at the idea. She inhaled pensively and considered what he had said.

"What you are suggesting will be difficult," she said. "Even if I am able to discover the information you need, the West Khan may not name all of his champions until the day of the tournament. The knowledge may not do you any good at such a late stage."

"Anything, at any time," he said eagerly. "Even if it has to wait until the last minute, I'll be able to use the information to our advantage."

Khan Flavia considered him again thoughtfully. "Perhaps so… My, you are a shrewd one, Lucan. I believe Prince Chrom has done well to keep you at his side. Very well, I shall try to find out what you need to know… But I make no promises."

* * *

The remaining five days edged by with painful slowness. The days a monotony of exercise, exhaustion and nervous anticipation, the nights filled with study, uncertainty, and the endless questions about the past. Lucan could see the improvement in the Shepherds' fighting, the result of three weeks spent in relentless training. Kellam's reflexes were better, Stahl had grown in confidence, and Sully lasted longer in her routine bouts with Frederick. Even Lissa had started to take up arms, although no one appeared willing to stop treating her gently in their practice sessions. Lucan himself spent much of his time training with Chrom. The pair of them had fought side by side on the day he had been found, and again on the Northroad, and again when they stormed the Longfort. There was something there, Lucan decided. Something more than the growing friendship between them. Chrom was a good man, strong and forthright and full of courage, but they fought together like two who had known each other for years, not weeks. And they were well matched; even in a contest of swords the difference between them was slight, and with magic Lucan could do more.

Magic. His sixth and seventh sense. A force he could call on at will. He wondered if it was common for mages to possess the aptitude he was showing. He had spoken about it briefly with Miriel after she had observed his magic in battle, and she had called his ability "most unusual". He certainly felt that his power was growing stronger, and with it came a growing instinct. Sometimes, alone in his room, he would place his tome on the desk and make an effort to wield it without touching the book. He had felt foolish at first, but for some reason had tried anyway. It was a strange thing, like calling out and feeling utterly convinced there would be no response. On the first few occasions nothing happened. Then – gradually – the tome had responded, until he could open its cover and call forth the lightning from the page, watch as it leaped onto his open hand, the dancing threads holding a beauty that belonged to another world.

So went his days and nights. After long hours training together the Shepherds would retire for the evening. Lucan would return to his room and continue to read or carve another wooden soldier, or otherwise contemplate the battle ahead. Most of all, he asked himself the same unanswerable questions, wondering about a past he feared to know as he sat in the light of the torches, staring at the unsettling mark on the back of his hand.

* * *

Lissa groaned noisily as she staggered beside him, shoulders slumped.

"I feel sick!" she complained. "Aren't you nervous, Lucan?"

"Yes, of course," he admitted. "I don't think I've ever experienced anything like this." They were in the bowels of Arena Ferox, making their way to the preparation rooms where they would await the order for the champions to assemble. Ahead of them, Stahl fiddled restlessly with his sword and further still Vaike had stopped to get in some last-minute sit-ups, while behind them Frederick was giving quiet advice to Sumia. Overhead, through thick metres of ancient stone, they could hear the expectant rumble of the crowd, already waiting to see them fight and die on the stones of the arena for their entertainment.

The contest was nigh, and everyone felt the pressure of the occasion. Very soon they would be up there, amid the feral storm of chants and shouts and screams, the people of Ferox baying for torn flesh and pooling blood while six of the Shepherds risked their lives for Ylisse's destiny. Even at this distance, muted through heavy walls and floors, that noise lined his stomach with a nauseating fear unlike any he had felt in their previous battles. The Shepherds were ready, but none of them were used to fighting for spectacle.

"Yeah well, you hide it well," Lissa continued. "You're like Chrom that way. I don't know how he manages to always stay so brave."

"I think a lot of it has to do with having no choice," Lucan said. "But Chrom is naturally strong-willed. He's able to ignore any fear he feels… He's easy to admire that way."

"I just wish it was easier to copy him."

"Ha! Well, don't worry too much. Fear helps to keep you alive. Besides, we're not about to lose this tournament."

Lissa looked at him. "You're really sure we'll win this? I bet the other champions are really tough and scary."

"We fought against the Risen on the Northroad, and we beat the Feroxi garrison at the Longfort, without losing anyone. We can handle this." The words sounded hollow to his own ears, but Lissa seemed to find comfort in them.

They went past a junction in the corridor, a passageway opening on their left. Something there caught his attention, a glimpse in his peripheral vision of a shape that shouldn't be there.

"You go on ahead, Lissa. I'll catch you up."

"Umm, why? What is it, Lucan?"

"Nothing. It's all right. You go ahead with the others, I'll only be a moment."

Reluctantly she carried on walking, glancing curiously back at him a few times as she went. He waited until Frederick and Sumia were half way down the corridor before he went back to the junction, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

An unremarkable-looking man stood midway along the passage, leaning against the wall. Lucan stepped closer, but made sure to keep out of striking distance.

"I'm here on the orders of the Khan," he said quietly.

"I see…" Lucan said. He felt tense.

"Are you my target?" the man asked.

"… I suppose I am."

* * *

"The West Khan's champions are a balanced group. Four warriors, two mages, two heavily armoured knights, and a swordsman as their leader."

"I wouldn't have expected there to be mages," Frederick remarked.

"Neither did I. The knights are a bit of a surprise as well. This changes things…"

"What do you suggest, Lucan?" Chrom asked him.

It was the riddle he had puzzled over almost non-stop for three weeks. Day after day he had watched the Shepherds in training, turning over all the possible combinations in his head, adjusting the model every time they improved. He had established nearly half a dozen different possible arena teams, their potential strengths and weaknesses all appraised and analysed. But Khan Flavia had come through for them. Now they knew who there opponents would be, and with that everything had fallen into place in an instant.

"Obviously, you're going to lead the Shepherds. And there's no way we'll want to fight without Frederick. That's two…" Lucan paused a moment, preparing to make his case. "I want you to take me as well. I know it might look like you're playing favourites, and I don't want to seem arrogant, but if there are knights and mages among the enemy then I could help make a difference…"

Surprisingly, Chrom smiled. "Ha! I didn't want to set foot out there without you, Lucan. Together we'll face down anyone they send against us."

Frederick nodded. "Your magic is one of our greatest strengths. We would be foolish not to use it."

Just as it had on that first day, that expression of trust meant everything. "Thank you… Both of you. I'll try not to let you down."

"What about the remaining three?" Chrom asked.

Lucan grimaced inwardly. "I know you won't like it, but… Lissa's staff would be a great help. If our last encounters are anything to go by, we're going to need her."

"Well, you're right, I don't like it… But she's already taken part in our other battles. If I made her sit this one out I'd never hear the end of it. What about the others?"

"Kellam. He's tough and fairly dependable. He can offer better protection than anyone else, and in a fight like this, that could be what keeps someone alive. And Miriel. If we're up against armoured knights, she's better suited than most to bring them down quickly."

"Anything you want to add, Frederick?"

"No, milord. The team Lucan suggests is a prudent balance between strength and defence. I agree with his judgement in this matter."

Chrom nodded. "As do I. All right then, we have our six. Let's go tell the others. Khan Flavia is waiting."

* * *

Lucan scarcely would have believed it, but the silence in the arena was almost as terrible as the roar that had crashed around them only moments before.

"Grrr, it's not fair!" Lissa grumbled at his side. "Why do they get nine warriors when we're only allowed six? That's not a fair fight!"

"I know," he said. "I think it comes from a tradition. The ruling Khan has the advantage of a few more champions in the tournament."

"Sounds to me like someone made up an excuse to stay in power longer!"

In the centre of the arena, Chrom stood facing the West Khan's leading champion. Marth. The same young man who had helped them fight off the Risen on the night of the cataclysm.

Chrom charged.

At their end of the arena, the rest of the Shepherds watched, an acid tension sitting heavy in their guts. It was another tradition that the leading champions should face each other in single combat before the two teams clashed. If one was injured or killed his opponent, it could sway the contest for their side, and on some historical occasions the tournament had been decided purely by that opening duel.

Back and forth they went, exchanging blows with a ferocity and grace none of them save Frederick could have equalled. At first glance Chrom looked the surer bet: taller, longer reach, evidently more muscled. But Marth was something else. He matched Chrom's power with no difficulty, and launched his own attacks with the speed and agility of a panther. For a while Chrom was forced back, giving ground to parry a river of strikes with no time to counter. Lucan watched, stomach lurching at each swing from Marth lest one should find its way through Chrom's guard.

The two separated for an instant, then lunged as one. For a dizzying moment Lucan wondered if either had been hit. Then Marth was in the air, aiming a devastating swipe identical to the one Chrom had opened with.

Chrom rolled away just before Marth landed. The silence in the arena was breathless as the pair straightened.

Then the roaring. As one the crowd cheered its applause at the skill of the two champions, the screams taking on a pitch that could only signify the utmost amazement and delight. In the lowest level of the stands, the fat-bellied announcer declared in his booming voice that the initial encounter was a draw, lyricising over the prowess of the two Khans' chosen warriors. Chrom and Marth stalked away from the centre of the arena and returned to their separate sides.

The Shepherds rushed to congratulate their captain as he approached, but predictably Chrom dismissed the praise. He stepped close to Lucan to be heard over the din.

"This is it. Any last-minute suggestions, Lucan?" He was flushed, but uninjured. In the distance they could dimly hear the announcer informing the crowd that the tournament proper would begin momentarily.

Lucan placed his hands on his hips and studied the ground and the walls, careful not to look directly at any of their opponents. "They outnumber us, but they're widely spaced around the arena," he said. "That's a mistake. We'll be able to take them down a couple at a time before the rest get to close in. I sense they're overconfident. Marth is new among them, and I don't think their warriors have fought alongside each other the way ours have. We should stay fairly close; Frederick and Kellam fighting on the left, me and and you on the right, Lissa and Miriel in the centre and slightly back – they'll be fairly safe but can step in where necessary."

"I was thinking much the same. Good. Let's get ready then. Everyone…!" Chrom turned to address their small group, issuing the final commands and giving a brief parting speech.

Lucan barely heard. He drew his sword, spun it with his wrist, looked at the blade. Everything there was familiar: the weight, the balance, the way it cut the air… But it did not bring him the usual sense of assurance. Now, with the fatal moment upon them, his grip and technique felt unsettled.

He prayed that it would not cost them.

At an unseen signal, the announcer let forth a sonorous bellow, and bid the combatants to begin.

"_On me_!" Chrom shouted to him over the crescendoing screams of the crowd. Together they sprinted forward and to the right, heading straight for the muscle-bound warrior charging them –

– _235 pounds, 210 centimetres, seasoned killer, fights for pleasure, reach 1.7 metres, not fast but excellent technique, favours his right side_ –

Chrom slowed in time to meet the man's charge. The pit-fighter came in fast, hoping to dispatch one quickly so he could focus on the other, but Lucan was still sprinting, dashing in with raised sword to swipe a parry against the pit-fighter's axe. The clash sent a bolt of pain surging through his arm, burying into his shoulder and threatening to wrench the sword from his grip, but it disrupted the man's swing and left the blade of the axehead grating uselessly against the stone floor. Then Chrom and Lucan were on him, inside the axe's reach and jabbing with close, quick stabs at the pit-fighter's exposed flesh – a multitude of bites from a school of steel fish. In moments he was crumbling to his knees, then hitting the ground, dead.

Lucan span round as they moved on –

– _Lissa and Miriel safe, Frederick and Kellam uninjured, first warrior on their side down, both mages closing fast, axe throwers not far behind them_ –

– It was his turn to take the lead. He saw the Feroxi wizard on their side. Saw the man's experience and the power at his command, saw his quick wits and initiative.

It was not enough. He reached for his own magic tome, but the mage was already targeting him, hand outstretched. Coruscating talons of lightning flew at him, needling into his body where they hit and causing him to grimace hard at the pain.

He was quick to respond in kind with a ball of thunderous energy. For an instant the agony dulled, replaced by euphoria as his own lightning coursed through him then shot forth, the fury of the heavens made manifest in his very hand.

The Feroxi mage tried to dodge, but the bolt was too fast. It ripped into him with a savagery that nearly knocked him off his feet and left him doubled over. Chrom was already closing in to finish the job, executing what was fast becoming their staple approach to dealing with mages. One blow was all it took.

Lucan reeled. Tendrils of smoke were rising from his coat where the magic had hit, and he felt suddenly feeble from the blast. _Gods_! To think that he'd considered himself gifted with magic. The West Khan's choices were suddenly making a lot of sense –

– _Other mage wounded but Frederick badly hurt, him and Kellam falling back, rest of the enemy advancing_ –

– He and Chrom needed to regroup as well. That was their plan. But it was so hard to move. He could barely stand…

They ran back towards the rest of the group, one of the West Khan's axe-throwers giving chase close behind. Lucan struggled to keep his feet all the way, doing his best to block out the sentient roar of the crowd that still rattled his nerves. He couldn't let up now. They still had much to do.

He snatched the vulnerary he'd kept in easy reach, gulping down a desperate swallow. He felt strength returning to him immediately, but no sooner had they stopped running than the axe thrower was ready to let fly –

– _45-55 years old, grizzled but still large and strong, cunning, moves with a hunter's instincts, 20 metres away _–

– Lucan started to dash one way, but the thrower was too experienced to believe the ruse. He'd brought down countless prey with his chosen weapon, and could read the movements of a feigned flight. Through the noise of the arena Lucan heard an urgent whispering, then with a _thud_ the axehead buried into his side, over the ribs.

The shock of it, the biting pain of the blade wedged into his flesh, made him cry out. He lost hold of the tome and stumbled to one knee, watching helplessly as the thrower readied another axehead –

– _Second mage down, Frederick healed, he and Kellam exchanging blows with the axe man on their side_ –

– Which meant…

Suddenly Lissa was behind him, suffusing him in white light. He found the strength to pull the axe blade free from his side, marvelling at the lack of pain and how the wound began to staunch. In the same moment Miriel arrived, tome open, sending a ball of flame towards the hunter opposite with an authoritative gesture.

The fireball impacted against the large man's torso then dissipated, scorching his chest and sending him staggering for two precious seconds –

– _Hurt but not hurt enough, Lissa or Miriel his next target, neither likely to survive a clean hit_ –

– Lucan dashed forward, trying to close the gap between them. Chrom was already several paces ahead. The hunter saw them coming, set his feet for another throw, raised the axehead.

With a growl Chrom leaped, weapon poised, covering the remaining distance in a predatory dive. Falchion descended as the axe began to fly, swatting aside the projectile and cutting into the hunter with the same stroke. A heartbeat later Lucan's sword landed, stabbing deep into the man's chest and spilling his blood over the arena stones.

They barely had time to wrench free their blades before the heavily armoured knight was on them. He loomed over their heads, Death in an impassive steel helm, moving far too quickly for all his armour. With a surge he came at Lucan, too large and too close for the tactician to 'see' his opponent properly. He parried spear, shield and plated arm alike with the longsword blocks Frederick had taught him until he was sure the knight was going to tire, while on the other side Chrom struck against the metal juggernaut to little effect.

Lucan turned aside a spear thrust with an outside guard, only to be faced with the massive oncoming shield, his hands out of position. In an instant his world shrank to the size of a cold, hard wall crashing into his head, annihilating all thought except for dazzling pain. The blow lifted him off his feet and he landed on his back, stunned and helpless.

Only Chrom's intervention kept him alive. Chrom stepped into the path of the knight, taking a nasty wound to his side as he tried to keep the enemy busy. Lucan glanced up, still dazed from the impact echoing through his skull.

But even dazed –

– _Career soldier, 15 years' experience, excellent reflexes, used to his armour but weaker on his left knee_ –

– "_Chrom_! _Left knee_!" he screamed, hoping he was heard. He scrambled to his feet.

The tome still lay where it fell, nearly 20 metres away. He sprinted for it, while all around the tumult of the crowd reached an unbelievable pitch.

Across the arena, Frederick was turning his horse ready for another charge. For a moment their eyes met, and Lucan gave him the signal they had agreed on in the preparation rooms. _Get Ready_.

Still a dozen metres from the spell book, he reached out with his left hand and _called_ desperately with all his being. The tome sparked, brushed over the stones, then flew the remaining distance, drawn back to him like a magnet.

Immediately he turned, bloody blade tucked under his left arm. Chrom had managed to land a powerful hit against his opponent's weaker knee, and for a blessed instant the knight was frozen, crippled by his pain. Drawing power from the open pages before him, Lucan hurled a bolt of pure thunder that flashed across the arena. It slammed into the armoured warrior with a force that sent him crashing to the ground, steel plate no protection against the arcane voltage. He did not stir again.

Even that victory was short-lived. Lucan rushed to rejoin Chrom, now hunched over his wounded side and breathing hard. But Marth was also near, racing from the other direction.

Once again the two champions prepared to cross swords. More than ever Lucan feared for their lives. Marth and Chrom had been evenly matched at the start, but even now Marth was fresh and uninjured – unlike either of them.

"Who was your father?" Chrom asked.

"I've said enough for one day, sir," Marth replied. Then lunged.

Back and forth the swordsman went, a blue blur between them. Having to watch both Chrom and Lucan on either side was possibly the only thing that kept either of them standing, and even then they struggled. Lucan parried the attacks one-handed, too hard-pressed to cast another spell. With every strike he half expected to lose his sword.

Then salvation.

Kellam had kept the second knight occupied while Miriel cast a spell to cook the man in his armour. With no other foes to stop him, Frederick was free to initiate their plan to deal with the enemy champion. He spurred his horse into one final gallop, racing towards Marth with all the speed his destrier could muster. Marth realised the oncoming danger and waited until the last possible moment before darting aside.

Yet Frederick was a veteran of the joust, his aim impeccable even in the heart of combat. The lance took Marth in the shoulder, tearing the swordsman off his feet with an unmanly scream. Even as he fell, Chrom compounded the defeat with a swipe to the legs that left Marth sprawled in the dust, hamstrung and beaten.

Lucan scanned the arena floor, but there were no more enemies left to fight. Only the Shepherds were still standing.

The almighty crash of a gong signalled an end to the contest, and in its wake the cheers of the crowd soared higher still, a sea of adulation resounding all around them.

Realisation was not immediate. The seconds ticked away as understanding gradually seeped in. Lucan gave a ragged sigh of laughter. It was true. They'd done it. The Shepherds were victorious, and Ylisse would have its alliance.

The portly announcer spoke up once again, addressing the crowd as he extolled the prowess of the Shepherds – and Chrom and Lucan in particular.

In the noise of the arena Lucan could not make out all of the words, but caught the overall meaning. Chrom and Lucan, the heroes of the arena… The crown prince of Ylisse, risking his own lifeblood in the ring of steel for the sake of his people… His friend and tactician, following his every step… Fighting side-by-side like two souls in one body, a deadly symbiosis of blade and sorcery… Beseeching the multitude in the stands, the speaker called upon them to sing to the glory of these two warriors.

"_Chrrrrrrrrrrom_!" he bellowed, ringing the 'r' impressively.

"_PRINCE CHROM_!" the crowd responded, with both one voice and a thousand.

"_Luuuucaaaan_!" the announcer roared.

"_LUCAN_!_ LUCAN_!"

Several more times the announcer chanted their names, the demagogue of a cult devoted to blood and skill and steel, and each time the crowd's response was instant. On the arena floor the Shepherds celebrated their victory, Kellam raising spear and shield to the sky while Lissa jumped into the air with a very unregal whoop.

Despite the wound in his side Chrom stood tall, buoyed up by the flush of triumph. He could not suppress his smile. "We did it, Lucan!" He clapped a hand on Lucan's shoulder.

"Ha! Ha ha ha!" The laughter tumbled out of him like a spilled dam. Though he resisted the temptation, he felt an urge to raise his weapons aloft and scream to the heavens. He wanted to roar his joy and defiance to their fallen foes. Even with the exhaustion, the energy sapped by the lightning blast, the aching half-healed cut in his side and the bruising from the shield bash, for one brief, mad moment, he felt like he could have done it all again, and gladly.

This was the Feroxi way. The brutal, martial life so many of its people lived by. Lucan doubted that it could ever be his way, but there in the dust of the Grand Arena, surrounded by his comrades and victorious despite their suffering, he understood this veneration of strength. Strength meant survival, and to celebrate it was to celebrate life itself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: I've been wanting to finish this off and upload it for about the last week. Hopefully it isn't (too much of) a disappointment. The next one shouldn't take as long, but it will be more of an interlude than a proper chapter.**

* * *

4: First Nightmare

They stood on the cold windy foothills as the morning waxed bright around them, on the border between Ylisse and Plegia, in a limbo between war and peace.

Almost as soon as they had returned to Ferox, more dour news had reached them. Plegia had launched an attack on Ylisse. Villages had been pillaged. Maribelle, one of the Shepherds' own, had been captured. A meeting had been arranged. Now, scarcely one week later, here they stood.

He shifted uncomfortably in the breeze. Something about the whole scene was familiar. Further up, the Exalt was at parley with the Plegian king. Gangrel.

It was Lucan's first sight of the man. Everything about him seemed wrong. Dusky, discoloured complexion; attire both extravagant and eccentric; the long, tapering nails, and sharp, pointed features… Everything seemed to reflect the jagged madness that lay within. He watched the negotiations, fascinated and disturbed as the king's expression flew from one extreme to another. In a blink his countenance was a picture of worry and concern, as perfectly made as it was evidently fake, like a theatre mask briefly worn and then tossed aside, replaced by a look of contorted fury that sharpened the razor features even further.

Emmeryn was the epitome of peace, offering the Mad King all she could in friendship and conciliation. But it was in vain. Gangrel wanted blood, and one way or another he would have it.

The scene unraveled before Lucan's eyes, peeling and flaking like paint on a battered shield.

Soon he was standing on the brow of the lowest hill, surveying the battlefield around them as Plegia's forced advanced. The initial prognosis was bad. Very bad. Worse even than on the Northroad or at the Longfort. At a glance he could see that one-for-one, the majority of the Plegian soldiers were more than a match for most of the Shepherds. A hundred facts flew through his head in an instant – skills, distances, numbers, equipment, strength, formations… And for several terrible moments, the answer to the problem came to him in one word.

_Impossible_.

Impossible for them to survive. Impossible to attain victory without losing one of their own.

He looked at where Ricken and Maribelle were positioned half way up the next slope, retreating in earnest while the Plegian net closed around them. He looked deep inside, searching his mind for solutions with that crystalline insight that seemed to defy time. He ran through a dozen different plans, playing out the moves of the Shepherds and their enemies in his head, and in each scenario Ricken and Maribelle died.

Except one…

He thanked the gods for Frederick and Kellam, fighting together once again after their successful collaboration in Arena Ferox. Together they fought off the intense onslaught of the Plegian soldiers at the top of the first hill. Thanks mostly to those two stalwarts, they were able to make a hole in the enemy forces large enough for Ricken and Maribelle to slip through. Behind the two knights, Lucan and Lissa assisted with healing spells and bolts of golden thunder.

He thanked the gods for Chrom and Sumia, singlehandedly holding the base of the hill against the foes behind them, the pegasus rider sweeping down in an aerial glissade whenever the prince's enemies came too close. Together they prevented the rear forces from reaching the rest of the Shepherds as they held the slope.

Yet even when the infantry had been cleared from the ridge, their job was only half done. He looked up, only to see the units of wyvern riders heading for them. Black-winged shapes of scale and steel, sailing the air in a fleet that darkened the sky until all light had gone and he could see nothing at all, his world reduced to a narrow corridor and a sinister gloom held at bay only by two torches.

His sword was in hand. Beyond the fire glow vague shapes were moving, resolving themselves into shadowy assassins. One by one the aspects of death came forward to take turns in taking his life, their eyes hidden in darkness. This one wielding a double-bladed axe, the next poised with a finely tapered sword…

He did not fight them to win, but to keep them back. His life became a swirl of orange and black and reflecting silver, darting left and right as bloodthirsty metal grated against narrow walls or stabbed into darkness.

The torches guttered out. Then he was running back through the halls, the steps impossibly slow and exaggerated. He strained his muscles to move faster, but still it felt like moving through water. Up ahead, the silhouette of a malevolent figure, a dusky voice in his head mocking him with promises of the 'truth'…

He raised his hand. Reality sparked. Without thinking, without trying, he called up a furious thunderbolt, easily the most devastating magic he had ever been able to draw on. For a blinding instant it lit the night in searing yellow… Then the crash as it met its target. An explosion of shocking volume that almost seemed to tremble the very stones beneath them.

Then all was darkness again.

He felt himself unable to move. He stood (or lay?) paralysed, unable even to shift his head or eyes. It was like waking in the middle of the night, fully aware but incapable of moving a muscle, a consciousness trapped in the skull of an unmoving body. He fought against the surge of panic, tried to wait patiently for control over his nerves to return. He could not see anything. The all-enveloping darkness lay thick and heavy around him.

It reminded him of that primordial darkness – the one he had almost started to forget, the one from the time Before…

There was no controlling the terror now. He recognised this darkness. It was the same as that which he had escaped the day Chrom found him and life began. Was he going to 'die' again, already? Was this darkness about to rend the memories from his consciousness, then spit him back out into the world once more?

Out of the obsidian depths, the malevolent figure emerged, lying as if dead. He began to stir, then rose with difficulty to his feet, grumbling in outrage and confusion.

And then the voice.

It reverberated through the Stygian oblivion. He watched, mute and insensate, and at first he was sure the darkness itself had spoken. Then an outline appeared, visible only for the shadowy flames that burned around the body. It stepped towards the malevolent figure, and it seemed to come from beyond Creation, crawling into the world from some writhing outer darkness inhabited by monsters. There was nothing terrestrial or celestial in its being. Its very presence was abomination, and his soul quailed in horror of it.

It spoke again, and its words came from several voices at once, grating and dissonant, some out of sync with the rest. They poured into his heart, black with unspeakable evil and filled with awful promise.

Liquid terror trickled through his mind, colder than ice, filtering down to some primal origin until he wanted to keen in despair like an animal, without logic or reason.

One by one the bonds that held him snapped. Once again he could move. Once again he could breathe. Then he was rising out of the heavy darkness, struggling up into a sitting position with a terrible scream.

* * *

His awareness returned in stages, spreading out from him in a widening ripple: heaving breaths and clammy skin in the still-dark, the tangled bedsheets damp with sweat, the rest of his quarters beyond, the castle at Ylisstol.

It was still night. Hours earlier there had been an assassination attempt against Emmeryn – a small army of killers infiltrating the castle to murder the Exalt under the cloak of darkness.

He stood up from the bed, a little shaken, and went to the desk, pouring himself a cup of water from the jug on the side. Then he walked across the room to the small, square table, and sat down in a chair by the window overlooking the castle's inner terrace.

It had been chaos during the battle, with him and Chrom trying to assemble as many of the Shepherds as they could before the murderers progressed too far. It had been even worse afterwards – the panic, the confusion, the fear that there might still be assassins waiting behind every pillar and in every alcove, the worry that this was simply the vanguard of an entire army, waiting at the castle gates… The worst of their fears were thankfully not realised, but it was little comfort. An entire skirmish party had managed to infiltrate the castle without alarm, and if not for a timely warning from the cryptic Marth – their ally once more after the tournament in Ferox – it would have meant the end of Emmeryn and the loss of the Fire Emblem.

Discovering the identity of the attackers, how their plan had progressed so far, what their motives were… It was all still a great unknown. It was only after the fighting that the real work began: treating the injured and clearing the halls of the fallen; searching the castle; sending scouts out into the city and beyond; speaking to Ylisse's unlikely new allies, the aloof Panne and a dubious thief named Gaius. After they had roused more of the castle's standing garrison and appointed sentry positions, Chrom had urged Lucan to go and catch some sleep.

And now this dream. Where had that come from? Had it been pure fantasy? Recollections of past events, pieced together in the underworld of his mind to form some macabre drama? No, that wasn't enough of an explanation. It had all felt too lucid to be a simple dream. It had felt as if he was reliving those battles. He had lain there in the darkness and watched an evil sorcerer commune with something daemonic! That had happened! As real as now!

He thought again about the last part, when he had once again been surrounded by that darkness. Trying to recall the details now was difficult, like trying to recall his life from Before. He didn't want to. Even the fading afterimage of that dream was almost too horrid to look upon.

The sorcerer, the one who had led the band of assassins, had stood there in the black. Why? And there had been something terrible there, an abyssal being whose very existence to human hearts was alien and wrong. It had spoken of itself, hadn't it? What did it say? A name, something with 'G'…?

_Griever… Grievous…_

No. That wasn't it. He strained harder for recollection, but the name evaded the groping reach of his memory every time.

It shouldn't have mattered. The fanciful denizens of dreams beyond the reach of the living world were of little concern. And yet the condescending sorcerer had been real. Lucan had fought him. And that dark wizard's presence in the surreal vision left him deeply uneasy.

He stood up, located his boots, breeches and coat in the heavy gloom, then sat on the bed and finished getting dressed. For precaution's sake he also took the magic tome, then headed for the door.

He had questions. Questions that would not wait until morning.

* * *

He eventually found Frederick in a corridor on one of the lower levels, dismissing a soldier who departed with haste. The knight was still conducting patrols through the castle well into the night, fearful that more intruders might yet remain. Lucan noticed the man still did not look tired.

"Frederick… How go the patrols? Any leads on who the assassins were?"

"Regrettably not. I have been organising sweeps through the castle almost since the battle ended. I must have personally checked all of the rooms a dozen times by now, but there are no traces of the assailants, and nothing was found on the fallen to indicate where they came from. The only consolation is that we are almost certainly rid of them for now."

"I see… And the plan is still to escort the Exalt to the Eastern Palace?"

"Indeed." Frederick paused. "Is something amiss, Lucan? You seem troubled."

"I wanted to ask you something." He stopped, almost fearing the answer. "What has been done with the bodies of the enemy?"

"They have been gathered in the outer courtyard. Tomorrow a group of guards will take them out of the castle to be burned."

"All of them?"

Frederick frowned. "Of course. Why?"

"The assassins were led by a tall sorcerer… Was his body among the dead taken out?"

"Yes, I recall him. He too was removed."

"You're sure? You saw him with your own eyes?"

"_Yes_. What is this about?"

Lucan sighed. It seemed ridiculous, but the relief was no less palpable. "Nothing." What else had he expected? He had witnessed the dark wizard die, had even been the one to kill him. "I… simply wanted to make sure he was dead," he added lamely. "For some reason I was afraid he might have got away."

"There is little chance of that. That bolt of magic you cast at him was… unbelievable. In all my years, I have never seen anything like it."

Lucan remembered. Just as in the dream, he had hurled the most powerful magic he could have imagined. Since the return from Ferox his powers had continued to increase, but this had been something else. The thunderbolt had been there almost before he had a thought to cast it, as if the deed had been scripted by fate itself and he was merely fulfilling its precept.

"I don't know how I did that," he admitted. "But it's not really important right now. I'll let you get back to your duties." He turned to go.

"Lucan, wait. I have something to say."

He turned back.

Frederick stood facing him squarely, hands behind his back, his look as stern as ever. "It has occurred to me that if there was an enemy spy among our ranks, tonight would have been the perfect moment for them to strike a blow against Ylisse. They could have easily sneaked into the Exalt's chambers and murdered her while the rest of the Shepherds were distracted."

He wasn't sure what to make of that. "I guess so…"

"I observed that you spent most of the battle blocking one of the corridors to the Exalt's chambers. One might say that you slowing their advance in the middle was the biggest factor in our victory."

"Well…" That had certainly been the plan. But it had come to him differently this time. The insight had almost been a vision, a gaze through the eyes of the enemy commander that showed him how the killers were organised and what they would do. He had directed everyone accordingly, and placed himself in one of the narrow passages to hold off their advance. His memory of the castle interior had done the rest.

"You have become a fine Shepherd, Lucan. One of our strongest fighters, and an irreplaceable tactician."

The sudden praise made him uncomfortable, especially from Frederick. "I – uh, thank you, but –"

"What I mean to say is that I trust you. I believe your amnesia is real. I have kept you under suspicion for far too long, and all the while you have served Ylisse faultlessly. I pray you can forgive me for my grave misjudgement."

He should have been relieved. Delighted, even. Frederick had questioned his intentions from the day they met, and finally convincing the knight of his honesty had been something he had aspired to. Yet instead, he felt startled. The dream had been so intense; he had breathed it, bled it, fought it, to the point that waking had left him unsure of what was real and what was not. Even a declaration of confidence from Frederick could not appease his rattled mind. He dimly recalled mumbling some vague acceptance to the knight, then taking his leave.

When he returned to his room he took the same seat as before, periodically refilling his cup with water as he sat in quiet reflection, waiting for the morning. A part of him was glad the sorcerer's body had been accounted for and taken out with the rest, but he was not really reassured. He tried again to remember more of that underworld dream, the nightmare thing that had inhabited it…

_Grimoire… Grim Reaper…_

It was like striking a sword against water. Trying to recall more details yielded nothing, the vague images and sensations still swirling in the periphery of his mind. Why couldn't he rest easy, knowing the foe was defeated and the dream nothing more than his own imagining?

Sitting there in the dark, he knew the answer. He had felt something about that final vision, a feeling identical to the one he had experienced on that first day, watching the grey smoke billow from the burning village. It was a symbol of war, that smoke, and there had been a profound familiarity to it, almost too delicate to sense.

The dream had been the same. He could not dismiss it because of that resonant familiarity, the fearful sensation that it was connected with his past. There was something of origin about that primordial black, a clue to who he was, hidden in the heart of oblivion.

He remained there for hours, watching the darkness slowly give way to the approach of the day, and still he could find no solace. There was no comfort in the grey of the insomniac dawn – after such a night, it seemed like little more than a brittle facade concealing a world of shadows.

He lived. His fledgling sense of self would continue another day. The light would grow stronger, eventually expelling the fantasies of the night, and he would go about his work as before. But that first nightmare was a reminder that the past still haunted him, an unknown shadow world beneath the surface of his conscious mind, dormant yet inexorable.


End file.
